The cave was quieter after briefings.

Not silent—never silent. The Batcomputer still hummed. Someone upstairs was probably arguing with Alfred about coffee intake. But the tension of strategy and mission talk had drained out with everyone else, leaving only the low echo of footsteps and the glow of screens dimming one by one.

You stayed seated longer than necessary.

A folded note sat crushed in your palm.

Not crushed enough to ruin it. Just enough to show how many times you'd almost thrown it away.

Across the room, Damian Wayne gathered the last of the mission files with sharp, efficient movements. Everything about him looked controlled. Precise. Like emotions were something to lock behind bulletproof glass and throw into the ocean.

Which made this whole thing feel insane.

Because you liked him anyway.

Not the idea of him. Him.

The boy who pretended not to care but always noticed when someone got hurt first. The one who stood slightly closer during dangerous missions without acknowledging it. The one who spoke like every conversation was a duel because vulnerability probably felt worse than broken ribs.

And somehow, against all logic, he still tried with you too.

That was the problem.

If he’d been completely cold, maybe this crush would've died months ago.

But then he'd hand you your favorite tea without mentioning it. Or wait for you after patrol without saying he was waiting. Or glance at you during briefings like checking you were still there.

Tiny things. Dangerous things.

You finally stood, nearly tripping over your own boots in the process.

Smooth.

Damian looked over immediately. “Your balance remains questionable.”

“There it is,” you muttered.

“What?”

“The daily insult. Thought maybe you forgot.”

His expression barely shifted, but you caught the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Victory.

Then your stomach immediately remembered the note in your hand.

Right.

That.

You swallowed hard and walked toward the exit instead of toward him. Coward move. Strategic retreat. Same thing.

You made it outside the cave entrance where the night air hit cool against your face. Gotham’s skyline blinked in the distance beyond the trees.

Your hands were shaking so badly the paper crackled.

This was stupid.

You could fight assassins. Jump off rooftops. Patch stab wounds. But handing a boy a note suddenly felt like the most terrifying thing you'd ever attempted.

Footsteps approached behind you.

Of course he followed.

“You left abruptly,” Damian said.

You kept staring straight ahead. “Needed air.”

“You are holding a piece of paper as though it insulted your bloodline.”

Heat flooded your face. “Can you not—”

“You are nervous.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You refuse to look at me.”

That only made it worse.

Because he was right.

You could feel him standing beside you now, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his. Close enough to notice the faint smell of rain and leather and the soap Alfred bought in bulk.

Your fingers tightened around the note.

Say something.

Anything.

Instead, your brain completely abandoned you.

Damian went quiet.

Not impatient. Just... waiting.

Which somehow made your chest hurt more.

“I don’t do this stuff well,” you admitted finally, voice embarrassingly small.

“I am aware.”

You let out one startled laugh despite yourself.

His tone softened just slightly. “You are still trembling.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then, carefully—awkwardly, like the words physically resisted him—Damian said, “For what it is worth… I am not particularly skilled at this either.”

That made you finally look at him.

Big mistake.

Because he looked nervous too.

Not visibly to anyone else. But you knew him now. Knew the stiffness in his posture meant uncertainty. Knew the way his eyes flicked away for half a second meant he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

The realization hit you all at once.

Oh.

He was trying.

For you.